


Of Loaded Questions and Fired Weapons

by inabsurd



Series: bad things happen bingo [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Blood, Gen, Major Character Injury, Mullet Stan Pines, Paranoid Ford Pines, Violence, keep in mind all my arrow healing knowledge comes from Xena so Stan's does too, prompt: shot with an arrow, treating a wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabsurd/pseuds/inabsurd
Summary: "Who is it? Have you come to steal my eyes?"The answer is decided for him.
Series: bad things happen bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660279
Comments: 5
Kudos: 116
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Of Loaded Questions and Fired Weapons

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for the bad things happen bingo requested by...ME. It's because I love to hurt Stan. Sue me.

The snow around Stan is red with blood, a not-so-out-of-the-ordinary occurrence for him. It’s crazy how almost normal the pain lancing up his side has become. How common it is for the vagrant to end his days on the ground in immense pain.

_ The arrow’s a nice touch though, _ he thinks as he eyes the wooden shaft stuck through him like he’s some kind of human shish kabob. He’s been attacked with lead pipes, knives, guns, and a light fixture  _ twice _ , but never a crossbow.

Never by his brother either, but Stan’s trying to avoid that thought. Trying not to think about how, even all those years ago when Stan broke his brother’s project, Ford had never resorted to violence.

Trying not to think that Ford’s lured him out to his cabin in the woods to finally get revenge.

Stan didn’t think his brother was the type, but he also hasn’t known his brother in ten years. He’s sure if Ford knew the thing’s he’s done, his brother wouldn’t think him the type either.

He brings an arm to his side in an attempt to staunch whatever bleeding he can, a surprised yelp leaving his throat as he jostles the bolt.

“Ford,” he grits his teeth, “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

His brother approaches with slow, deliberate steps. He’s barefoot, socks sopping up water the moment he steps off of the porch but Ford doesn’t seem to notice it. Actually, looking into his brother’s eyes, Ford doesn’t seem to notice much of anything at all. It’s the sort of desperate hardly-aware awareness that Stan’s only seen in the years since living on the street. Usually in drug users.

“You’re not fooling me,” Ford mumbles more into his crossbow than to Stan himself, “I know better, I know it’s not him, he’s  _ not coming! _ ” his brother’s volume rises throughout the tirade until it hits a high screech that makes the thief flinch on the ground.

Stan swallows, “No one’s foolin’ you, Ford. It’s Stan, okay? I got your postcar-”

An angry whine pulls itself from Ford’s throat, “ _ No you didn’t!”  _ he pauses, chest heaving with each breath, “He,” he corrects, eyes losing focus once more, staring off into some middle distance even as he keeps the crossbow level with Stanley’s face, “He’s not coming. Stan’s not coming. It’s been too long and Stan’s not coming.”

The scientist trembles where he stands, looking more like a madman than the college graduate their ma had said he’d become. Something had gone wrong here, but what could have happened in this backwater town to make his brother like this is anyone’s guess.

“I made it here, Ford, I promise,” Stan tries to move, to stand so he can at least get out of the way if his brother’s trigger finger decides to loose another arrow into his body, but the moment the conman shifts, he’s crying out in pain.

Stanford falters at the sound, eyes coming into focus once more. He looks at Stan in confusion, like he’s just done something so wildly wrong that Ford just can’t process it; like it’s not normal to be in pain when there’s an arrow through his torso or something.

Stan tries to get up again. He grits his teeth as he shifts, trying almost desperately to avoid another outcry. Almost immediately, the thief is slumping back into the snow, body drenched in sweat from the small effort, “Goddamnit, help me!”

The vagrant’s never been one to beg, but every other time he’s been in this position, Ford wasn’t the one with his life in his hands.

That seems to finally shake his brother out of his frenzy, eyes trailing first from the blood, then the arrow, and then to Stan’s face, twisted in pain.

“Oh god, what did I do?” Ford’s knees buckle, eyes wide in shock. The crossbow falls useless at his side, “Stan, I’m so sorry!”

Stan smiles tightly, “Just help me out, would ya?” he pushes himself up, arms trembling under the weight of him as the powder is stained red.

Ford is at his side in an instant, arms wrapped around his side and hauling the vagrant to his feet. His brother shakes under Stan’s wight, but he’s sure he’s shaking just as much as they trudge up the porch steps and into the house.

Stanley is lowered to the couch painstakingly slowly, clenching his fists and cursing the entire time.

“I’m going to get the medkit,” Ford tells him, turning tail as soon as the conman is situated.

“Grab a hot poker too!” Stan calls after him, groaning as he tries not to slump into the cushions and move the arrow around more than it has been.

The scientist’s head pops back into the living room, confusion clear on his face, “A hot poker?”

“You got a fireplace in here somewhere, yeah?”

Ford nods numbly.

“Light it up and stick a poker in it then!”

For one infuriating moment, it looks like Stanford’s about to argue with him even as he’s bleeding out on the damn couch. Stan’s two seconds away from wrestling himself to his feet and lighting a fire himself when Ford finally turns to go with nothing more than a conflicted look on his face.

Never one to sit and wait, even when he should be trying to minimize movement as much as possible, Stan starts to wrestle himself out of his threadbare jacket. He reaches for the arm on the side that doesn’t have the arrow through it, but even shifting that much to reach for the coat leaves Stan gasping for breath.

The vagrant squeezes his eyes shut, and puts his jacket sleeve in his mouth instead, pulling his arm out with his teeth instead. It has the added bonus of shutting himself up and keeping the pathetic moaning to a minimum, so Stan decides he likes this way better anyway.

Tears blur his vision and, by the time he’s half free, the grifter can’t help but fall back against the couch in exhaustion.

“ _ Fuck _ !” His side is alight with pain in an instant as he goes stiff, trying to minimize movement, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Slowly, as carefully as he can, Stan leans forward to take the pressure off of the arrow. It hurts, sends painful electrical pulses through him at each tiny jerk, but at least  _ that  _ pain ends, unlike the constant burn of the couch against the arrow tip protruding from his back.

“Fuck,” a stray tear falls from his eyes but Stan doesn’t dare try lifting his arm to wipe at his face. Instead, he sets to work on his other sleeve, gingerly reaching for it with his free hand. It stings, but not nearly as bad as it had been. The sleeve is off his shoulder as quickly and as painlessly as Stanley can manage, but the moment it’s off, he’s shoving a fist in his mouth to muffle another yelp; the newly freed weight of his jacket pulling down on the arrow shaft brutally.

Ford makes a reappearance a moment later, eyes wide and brows furrowed in deep-set concern at his brother’s desperately tense form, “What are you doing?” the medical supplies is thrown onto the cushion next to Stan as Ford pulls the vagrant forward to get a look at the damage.

“Ford!” Stan yells, can’t help but yell as he’s forcefully maneuvered without warning.

His brother lets go as if burned, back-peddling as if distance will help heal his brother.

Stan hisses between clenched teeth, “It’s fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Right,” Ford says thickly, staring at the bolt like it’s the first time he’s seeing it. With the way he was behaving earlier, Stan wouldn’t be surprised if it is.

His brother wastes no more time, much to Stanley’s relief and dread. Ford kneels before him, scissors in hand, reaching behind Stan’s back-

The vagrant jerks forward, “What are you doing?” he grits out between shudders of pain.

“We need to cut the jacket off,” Ford says, leaning forward for a better look.

Stan raises an arm weekly, “You can’t.”

His brother pauses, blinking, processing, “What do you mean? Stanley, I need to get to the wound,” his tone turns annoyed.

“We can get to it  _ without _ putting more holes in my coat,” Stan shoots back, equally annoyed. As much as the thief wants to just get a move on, he knows he can’t let Ford ruin his only jacket.

Stanford groans, “How do you expect to have it cleaned unless I can get to it? Or did you want an infection?”

“Look, you ever deal with arrow wounds before?” the thief glares.

“Uh-”

“Just listen to me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”

That’s a lie. That’s a very blatant lie. Stan’s never had to clean a crossbow wound; he’s never even had one pointed at him before today, but he does have experience with fatal injuries and he can at least respect the only clothes he owns. Ford’s got a point about taking off the jacket, but the conman just doesn’t have the extra money for a good coat right now.

Even through his hazy vision, Stan can tell his brother is eying him. He schools his features as best he can, making sure to play his cards close to his chest.

It works. Ford gives a heavy sigh, slumping like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, “So what do you want me to do?”

Stan smiles, grimaces really, but it’s close enough, “How much does the bolt stick out?”

The scientist grabs Stanley’s shoulder again but pulls him forward much slower this time, “About four inches, I’d say.”

“Okay,” Stan sighs, “Okay, okay. The shaft needs to come out so you need to break the head off.”

Ford nods and reaches forward with trembling hands and Stan winces the moment his fingers close around the arrow, gritting his teeth at the way he seems to vibrate from the inside out with all the shaking Ford does.

The pain increases tenfold as Stan’s vision whites out entirely. By the time he can see the room around him again, his throat is aching and Ford is clutching the shaft in a bloody grip.

Stan gapes, hand flying to his sides. His flesh stings at the contact, begs for him to remove the pressure, but the conman holds fast, “T-the poker!” he gasps, “Ford, we need the poker!”

Ford doesn’t move, eyes unseeing as he gazes at Stan’s writhing figure, “I’m so sorry,” the trembling takes on a violent pace, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to hurt you.”

Blood is slick against Stan’s hands, soaking through his shirt in no time even with his hand clamped tightly over the wound. He doesn’t even want to imagine how his back is faring.

“Ford, the poker,” he tries, panic edging its way into his voice.

If his brother hears him, he gives no acknowledgment, “Did Bill do this?” he gets a wild look in his eye, “Stan, my pupils, were they slitted?”

“Look, I dunno who Bill is but  _ if you don’t cauterize this thing I’m gonna bleed out! _ ” Stan gasps out, body shuddering at that meagre effort. His body trembles, a deep chill settling over him. The thief knows this feeling, it’s always like this when he’s on the verge of passing out.

His brother’s brain must finally go back online, or at least Stan hopes to god that’s what’s happening when he takes a startled step backward before fleeing into the hall.

Stan lays prone on his twin’s couch, breath whistling through his teeth as dark spots dot his vision. As he lays there, straining to hear any kind of sound from Ford, the terrifying thought that the man is just going to let him bleed out in his living room crosses his mind--whether because Stanford’s realized he’s made a mistake trying to save his life or because he’s going to lose it again and forget about his dying twin entirely.

The sound of static washes over him and the world goes dark.

Fire burns within his body, consuming in every sense of the word. He doesn’t know what’s happening, why, or even who he is for those long, excruciating moments. All he knows is that it burns, it  _ hurts, I’m dying-! _

It ends. Stan’s not sure when but it does, and he slumps at the bone-deep exhaustion he feels in its absence. The conman wants nothing more than to close his eyes and slip into oblivion, but he knows better than that. He knows that he’s never safe, least of all after a pain like that. Someone hurt him and he needs to get away.

With great effort, muscles cramping in protest of every movement, he manages to push away from where he is, clattering to the ground like a bag of bones.

Hands are on him in an instant but Stan won’t allow himself to be caught again. Blindly, he drives his fist up into his assaulter.

The man, whoever he is, lets out a satisfying  _ oomf _ at the strike, giving Stan ample time to crawl away. His torso, not far below his ribcage screams its protests, but the grifter doesn’t pause. He grits his teeth, using bleary eyes to crawl towards what looks like a mudroom.

_ The exit! _ he thinks, pulling himself up using a bookshelf as a handhold.

“Stanley, please,” a rough, confused voice calls after him.

Those two words are all Stan needs to come back to himself; he’d know that voice anywhere.

“Ford?” he rasps, back hitting the door with a loud thump that the main feels more than hears. His chest heaves as he stops to catch his breath, eyeing his twin where he kneels on the living room floor. At his side, singeing his carpet, Stan spies a white-hot poker.

The scientist eyes Stan wearily, most likely worried that the vagrant is going to bolt again, “Are you…” Ford pauses, the conflict he feels written across his face in big, block letters, “You should sit back down,” he says instead.

Stan swallows around the lump in his throat, not sure if he should feel relieved or trapped as he’s lead back to the bloodied sofa.

“I cauterized the wound,” Ford says, hands intertwined tightly with one-another as he looks his Stan over, “I just hope I didn’t damage anything more than it already was.”

The thief shrugs, “Even if you did, I would’a bled out if you hadn’t. So...yeah, thanks,” his voice is quiet even to his own ears, but Ford seems to hear him loud and clear if the minute widening of his eyes is anything to go by.

“You,” his twin pauses to clear his throat, “You know I pulled the trigger, right?” Ford pauses, considering, “That it was my crossbow?”

Stan nods, “Yeah, well, you patched me up too so I think we’re even,” he turns his head, quite fascinated by a skeleton prop Ford has sat off to the side, “Besides, you clearly weren’t all there, Poindexter,” the conman does his best to give his brother a teasing grin, but honestly, Stan’s not even sure his lips twitch.

“No, I suppose I wasn’t,” Ford frowns, shoulders slumping at the admission.

Stan sighs, “What’s going on here? Why the cryptic postcard? Why’d you answer the door with a crossbow?”

The thief didn’t notice it before, hadn’t seen it until the issue suddenly got worse, but Ford somehow shrinks in on himself more; a withdrawn, scared man alone in the woods. This isn’t where his brother was supposed to end up. Stan, yeah, this could be him easily--has been him on a few occasions--but Ford, his genius brother, is supposed to be a success in his field. A multi-millionaire, money enough to clear their parents' debt and leave the whole family sitting pretty for the rest of their lives.

How did they go from two kids exploring the shores of Glass Shard Beach to  _ this _ ?

“What happened, Ford?” he asks, voice hoarse.

It’s a loaded question, one that his twin doesn’t seem to have the answer to for once. Stanford looks him over,  _ really  _ looks him over; whatever he sees, it drains the last bit of fight from him.

“What happened, indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated ^_^


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